


Smile Like You Mean It

by tjs_whatnot



Category: White Collar
Genre: Asexuality, Cunnilingus, F/M, M/M, Polyamory, Sensual Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 05:34:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2376662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjs_whatnot/pseuds/tjs_whatnot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal has loved, and been loved a lot in his life. Through it all,  he has learned there are a lot of things he will do to get the affection he craves. When he falls in love with Peter and Elizabeth and they reciprocate, he discovers that he doesn't have to do anything he doesn't want to get what he wants. If only he can convince Peter that he isn't, in fact, broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Written for White Collar Big Bang. The story takes place directly after the Season One finale and veers from canon after that. Not that it's A/U exactly, just that canon isn't mentioned. Hopefully you will find that the characters and most of their relationships with each other don't change at all.
> 
> Title borrowed from The Killers. Beta read by NYWCGIRL, any remaining mistakes are all mine.
> 
> Art work comes from the amazing Kayla Shay. Please [go and tell them they rock!](http://kaylashay.livejournal.com/226444.html)

The first time Peter Burke gave him the triumphantly gleeful smile and invited him back to his place for dinner after they had solved a case no one else could have, thwarted a high-risk, big pay-off heist, working together like they'd been partners forever, like their combined brains and skill sets could accomplish anything, Neal Caffrey's heart sank.

He knew what that smile meant. He'd seen it before, many times before.

"Come on, I think I have a bottle of wine even you'd deem to drink," Peter said. He put his hand firmly in the curve of Neal's back between his shoulder blades in that way Peter had of gently pushing as if to say _I'm in charge, but you lead._ And of course Neal lead where Peter wanted to go. Always.

On the car ride out of Manhattan, Peter was on his Bluetooth with Hughes and the other higher-ups discussing the case. Neal had no interest in the paperwork and bureaucracies, so he looked out the window and let his mind wander. Of course, his mind returned to that smile.

The first time Neal had seen it had been on his very first partner in crime--Mozzie. Neal had never worked with anyone before Mozzie, never thought he needed to, wanted to. Who needed a partner to share the profits and the fun? But Mozzie taught him that he also got to share the responsibility and the risk. Mozzie became more than a partner, he was Neal's truest friend and his best mentor. Mozzie taught him so much about life, philosophy and the art of the grift that there was never any qualms in sharing the take and when he gave Neal that smile, Neal found himself risking more and more for that pat on the back than the gems, cash and art they had stolen.

That smile and a few bottles of Pinot Noir was their way of celebrating their shared brilliance.

Then he met Kate.

The first time he'd seen that smile on her, he'd had his heart in his throat as he told her who he really was. He had chosen his words so delicately, was so tuned in to signs of repulsion, of a desire to flee, that he didn't notice the slow progression of the smile until he was finished. Breathing deeply, he stopped looking at her hands, at her body language and looked into her eyes. The smile started there and it was positively devilish.

"Tell me more," she whispered in his ear.

So he did. He told her about heists he'd done and ones he hoped to do; he told her about the danger and risk, the skill and talent and about the magic, the pure adrenaline rush of bending things to your will; of setting a goal, working with confidence and studied assurance towards the prize, knowing with every fiber of you that you would be a success.

He told her all of this, and as he did, she got closer and closer until she was straddling him on the couch. Then the smile was occupied at Neal's lips, his jawline, his neck and his ear as she ground her hips and thighs against him and again begged, "Tell me more."

With hands around her waist, up her back, through her hair and hot breath on her skin, he told her everything, gave her everything.

Later, as they lay in bed too exhausted to move, too euphoric to sleep, holding onto each other, Kate with that same mischievous smile, told Neal about a gallery she had worked in before Adler. She told him about the art, the staff and the security systems.

Neal was in love.

Like with Mozzie, Neal would do anything for that smile, unlike Mozzie where the smile was the reward, with Kate, it was a promise of rewards to come. For her, the payoff that was almost better than the monetary prize was the sex. For Neal, the true payoff was after the sex, the bodies intertwined, her back curved into his chest, his right arm pinned under her shoulder as he held her tight, the fingertips of his left hand tracing abstracts and landscapes along her hip and thighs as he breathed into her neck and she asked the same question every time: _what's next?_

There were many _what's next_ , until, one day with no warning, there weren't.

Then there was Alex. She had a smile too, lord did she.

Where Kate's smile was mischievous, Alex's was possessive, as if Neal was the one treasure she got to keep, didn't have to fence. There was no talk of love between them; theirs was a barter system relationship. He gave her what she wanted in any position she wanted as much as she wanted, even though she knew before Neal did that it wasn't his favorite part. In exchange Alex gave him the after part, the clinging to each other, the intimacy of caresses and secrets whispered into warmed skin, even though _everyone_ who knew Alex knew that was not her favorite part.

"Neal?" Peter asked for what sounded like it wasn't the first time.

"Yeah?" Neal answered realizing they were outside of Peter's house. "Oh, sorry. Mind wandered."

"Yeah? Where to?"

Neal rubbed at his eyes and went to open the door. "Nowhere. Nothing."

Peter smiled. "Was it a Kate nothing or an Alex nothing?"

Neal rolled his eyes and didn't answer. Peter had just met Alex and was still trying to sort where she belonged in the ballad of Neal and Kate he had hummed in his head all those years. Neal wasn't about to give him anything.

How was Neal going to explain to Peter that it wasn't until Alex came back that he thought about what they'd had and what Kate and he had and how there were parts of that he wanted back desperately and parts he'd never admitted he could happily live without forever.

How could he tell Peter that before Kate he didn't know there was anything wrong with him? Not that he spent that much time thinking he was defective, that was one of the things wrong with him he guessed, how little he thought about sex. He remembered listening to other men talk about their sex lives and the looks of exaltation and euphoria. He wondered why he'd never felt like that and he learned to fake it, reasoning that he'd not found _the one_. Then he did meet the one. And still, he faked it. He was really good at faking it. He had to be. It would have torn him apart if Kate ever suspected the truth. Kate taught him about intimacy, about give and take and ultimately she taught him that there were a lot of things he would do for someone for those little bits of affection he so cherished.

How in the hell was Neal supposed to tell Peter that there was nothing he wouldn't do for Peter as a reward for that smile, and ask if it was his reward or the promise?

Then they walked in the door and Elizabeth was there with a smile of her own that warmed Neal and also allowed him to relax. How had he forgotten about El? Forgotten that Peter already had someone to give him all he ever needed, both the parts that Neal craved and the parts he endured?

Through dinner, Peter and Neal regaled El with their adventures and their brilliance. She beamed at them equally, clutching Neal's arm when they got to the part where the gun was pointed at him, taking Peter's hand when they got to the "Freeze! F.B.I.!" Peter's favorite part.

Every time she got up from the table she would run her fingers along Neal's arms, his shoulders and down the other, as if it were the most natural of things, but Neal melted into the touch each time anew. When Peter got up to join El in the kitchen, he stopped behind Neal, put both of his large hands firmly on Neal's shoulders and squeezed. Neal almost purred he was so content.

_Yes,_ he thought as they disappeared into the kitchen, _this is enough, more than enough._

Well, maybe not more than enough, but certainly more that he'd expected.

Besides, he was still living off the dream of finding Kate, of the _Happily Ever After_ , no matter what Mozzie said about their kind not getting those. Neal was different. Kate and Neal were different.

For months, that dream and those dinners with Peter and El kept him alive, sane and away from the almost daily temptation to run. Then the dream was gone. Kate was gone--for good.

The day comes back to him in flickers and flashes. There was a plane, and there she was. She was waving; he was waving back, his heart pounding painfully in his throat. His dream, right there and it was real and true. She smiled and he saw the answer to the question she had always asked, _What's next?_

_Anything._

Then Peter was there, and Neal remembered how hard it was to turn away from Peter, how his heart ached as if it really were being ripped in two. One half yearned for the plane, the escape and Kate. It was all he'd been dreaming about. The other half though, wanted desperately to stay and continue to live a future he'd never dreamed about, never even imagined with people that valued and inspired him daily. Yes, there was a thrill of the unknown in both choices, but the invariables with the life that Kate represented were easier to foresee, so he turned, he walked away from Peter.

Then the earth crumbled around him and the world was on fire, except there again was Peter, and Peter was holding him, holding him so tight, not letting him go, and where did he think Neal was going anyway?

There was no more _what's next,_ there was only Peter.

Neal didn't remember anything after that, flashes of a hospital, flashes of interrogations, questions he didn't remember answering, then it was dusk and he was in a car--Peter's car. Then Peter's house. Then a bedroom in Peter's house. Not Peter and El's bedroom, too sterile for that, no personality. Then El was there, lying beside him, holding him so tight and something inside of him just broke. He wrapped himself around her, clinging desperately and just wailed. No words, just keening shrieks. When the cruelty of it finally overwhelmed him, his grasp tightened further and his wailing turned into guttural howls.

More than one life had been lost that day, Neal felt that and it rocked his body in painful, shuddered sobs long after his strained throat gave out. All the while, El held on, stroking his back, his neck, his hair. If Peter was there, Neal didn't see him, didn't feel him. Not until Neal's shrieks turned to silent weeping, then a hitched breath behind Neal told him Peter was there. Neal imagined Peter in the door frame, the hall light throwing him into silhouetted shadows against the darkening of the room around him.

Neal wanted to turn to him, to reach for him, but Neal's body chose that moment to be washed over in exhaustion. So instead, he burrowed further into El's chest and fell asleep.

For three days he stayed in that bed and sometimes it was El lying beside him and sometimes Peter was there instead, sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to Neal, but the hand Peter leaned on was inches from Neal's head, as if Peter wanted to reach out, to comfort Neal, but that there were still lines Peter wouldn't cross, not without explicit permission.

Neal wrapped his hand around Peter's arm and rested his cheek on Peter's forearm, breathing in his scent as he imagined he could feel Peter's pulse point reverberating through him. Peter didn't move, not to acknowledge Neal's need, but also not to recoil. So Neal held on, marveling at how soothed this littlest of gesture from Peter made him.

Right before Neal drifted back to sleep, he heard Peter mumble something that sounded vaguely like, "Sorry."

When Neal woke up, El was where she had been the last few nights, snuggled into his back, arms around him, softly snoring into his shoulder. He was about to slide back to get even closer to her warmth when he noticed an added weight behind him. 

He looked behind him over El's shoulder. Peter was spooned against El, his head resting on the top of hers. And though he was now asleep, Neal could imagine Peter laying there watching him sleep. Neal sighed and listened to the dual breathing behind him as he once again drifted off.

The next night he fell asleep to whispered murmurs between Peter and El and it was the first night Neal didn't dream of Kate, of explosions and worlds' ending.

The night after that, he got up to go to the bathroom and when he came back, El and Peter had moved away from each other a bit, just enough for Neal to shimmy himself stealthily between them. They didn't stir and he called that a success. This win inspired him to feather-gently take Peter's hand in a handshake hold while threading the fingers of his other hand through El's and bringing both hands to rest over his heart. 

There was a gentle tug from El's hand and he held his breath, waiting for her to withdraw her hand. But instead, she just shifted to her side, kissing him on the cheek and settling against him with her head on his shoulder.

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to be overwhelmed with gratitude and longing. He understood perfectly well the fleeting condition of moments based on pity, guilt and grief. Tomorrow would come soon enough and he would face it when it did, but for this one hour, this one day he was going to take it, revel in it and live every second of it.

* * *

Not expecting to fall asleep, Neal woke with a jolt. The low-hanging dawn crept through the window and ran along the shape of Peter, sleeping beside him. He sighed when Peter’s eyelids didn’t as much as flutter. Neal looked around, El was gone, maybe in the bathroom, somewhere else in the house or maybe already left for work, Neal didn’t know.

He knew he should get up, that it might be awkward to have Peter wake up in a room where they were alone in bed together. It felt like there should have been a conversation before. But, looking down at the bare skin of Peter’s back and an impulse that Neal hadn’t entertained in years overcame him. 

First he flexed his fingers, blowing on them to take the chill off. After that, he studied his canvas: freckles along the shoulder blade and a mole on the small of Peter’s back were the only markings. He could work with those. Taking a deep breath, he began to work, relieved that with the exception of a stuttered exhale, Peter remained sleeping and unaware.

After a few minutes and no sign of Peter waking, Neal got bold and began adding more pressure to his sweeping subject.

“Landscape?”

Neal froze and looked from his canvas to where Peter’s head laid in the crook of his elbow, one eye peeked open, watching Neal, whose tongue had been slightly protruding from his lip in concentration.

Neal’s face turned red. “Yeah.”

Peter smiled. “Starry Night?”

Neal barked out a relieved laugh. “Close. Hokusai.”

“The Great Wave? How is that close? It’s not even the same continent.”

“The curve, the swirl. I imagine they would both feel the same.”

Peter contemplated and then shrugged.

“May I continue?” Neal asked, trying to ignore how awkward this should be and how little it was.

“Please do,” Peter answered. “Only. Perhaps broader strokes?”

Neal swallowed, nodded and bent back over Peter’s skin. As per Peter’s request, Neal applied more pressure to his strokes, if it were paint it would be smeared and globbed, but Neal liked the sensation of Peter’s skin and how he could feel its reaction to the pressure of his fingers. He tried to ignore Peter’s watching him; he didn’t want to be self-conscious. Neal had always been used to being watched, looked at, but not while creating. That was the only place where he allowed himself to let go, to be, and not aware of himself. It was when he was the truest _him_. He knew the irony of that as most of what he created were reproductions and forgeries. Still... it was who he was. 

He couldn’t help it though; Peter’s gaze on him was like a spotlight, hot and always searching. For what, Neal didn’t know.

“I like watching you like this,” Peter said in a breathy whisper after a long time.

“Yeah?” And though he fought it, Neal felt his cheeks heat up and he knew he was blushing. 

Peter chuckled. “Yeah. I’ve spent the last year watching you do a lot of clever things, but I’ve never seen you like this. It’s nice.”

“What do I look like?” Neal asked, curious now.

“Contemplative, engrossed, content.”

Neal smiled for a moment then his mind flashed to the explosion and his eyes flickered and looked away. 

Peter seemed to read Neal’s mind. “It’s okay to have small moments of contentment and still mourn. It’s not a disgrace to her memory.”

“No?” Neal whispered.

Peter turned on his side so he they were facing each other. “You have to live. Sometimes those brief moments are all you’re going to have to cling to. They’re okay, they mean you’re alive.”

Neal nodded slowly, not sure if he believed him, but knowing that right then it didn’t matter, any peace that he had while imaging the blue and white sea-swells were gone. “Would it be alright if I lay back down beside you? Would that be--”

Peter reached for him and pulled him down, wrapped his arms tightly around Neal’s shoulders. Neal tried really hard not to lose it right there in Peter’s arms. He kept it together for approximately six seconds before the prickle behind his eyes erupted into tears, and after that there was no holding back and he sobbed once again.

Peter didn’t say anything, didn’t hold tighter or push Neal away, he just held him, his heartbeat slow and steady, luring Neal into a matching rhythm. 

Neal knew he was in trouble, knew that there relationship was already in a place he’d never imagined and there was a good chance that it was headed towards something he wasn’t nowhere near prepared for. Still… he _was_ content. Right now, right here, he was alright.

When he trusted himself to talk again, he said, “You know, I like watching you work too.”

“Yeah?” Peter said, and Neal was shocked to how close they were as Peter’s whispered breath in his ear went straight to his bloodstream.

“What part? The paper work or when I get to order everyone around?”

“Well, I like watching you order people around. I like when you are enjoying yourself and that seems to please you. But no, my favorite time to watch you is when you’re giving a suspect, a witness or an informant the impression that you are an idiot.”

Peter laughed and his chest rumbling against Neal’s ribcage made Neal smile.  
“I guess I have the face for it.”

“I love watching that moment when they realize they’ve been played. I like to watch it register in their eyes and then watch the satisfaction on yours.”

“That’s when I enjoy myself the most.”

“I know.”


	2. Chapter Two

Neal woke up a few hours later alone. He was actually relieved of it. It was time to go home. They had given up enough of their lives and time for him. He would greedily take more, take it all, but that’s not who he wanted to be, not with them. He knew he’d be spending a fair amount of time trying to figure out what to do now, now that Kate was gone and the dream of them together in a promised freedom along with it. It would be so easy to stay there in the peace and security of this room, this house, these people. Too easy. 

So he went home. He sat at his kitchen table. He sat on his couch. He sat on his bed and then he wanted to go anywhere, sit anywhere that wasn’t there. Where he wasn’t alone.

There was a knock on the door and he almost tripped getting to it. He was expecting Mozzie, or June who had said she would bring up tea and cookies later. He was not expecting El and Peter. 

“Galeto?” El asked holding up a bag.

“Pistachio?” Neal asked, opening the door for them.

“Of course.”

He smiled at their backs as they walked in and El walked to the drawer and pulled out three spoons. How she knew where the silverware was Neal didn’t know. It just seemed that _of course_ she would know.

“What are you guys doing here? Aren’t you sick of me yet?”

“So sick,” Peter answered, trying not to smile.

El slugged Peter’s arm before turning to Neal. “We missed you.”

“Yeah?”

“And you didn’t say good bye,” Peter added.

Neal bowed his head. “Sorry. I just figured you’d want to get on with your lives. You have been very generous with your time and your home for a very long time. Any longer and I would have been taking advantage.”

“There’s no such thing,” El said. “With friends.”

Neal swallowed and nodded. “Okay.”

“You’re still learning all of this, aren’t you?” Peter asked.

“Parts. I’ve had friends before, friends I’ve trusted with my life, friends who would do anything for me and I would do likewise.” 

“We know you have,” El whispered, coming to him and wrapping her arms around him. “Peter wasn’t trying to imply that.”

Peter rushed to agree. “No, of course not. I might not understand everything there is to the Code of the Con or whatever you’d call it, but I’ve seen you with Mozzie, seen him with you. I followed you as you searched for Kate, I know those relationships are real and important. I would never suggest we could offer you better than that. We can, however, offer you _different_.”

Neal closed his eyes and buried his head in the crook of El’s neck. He wasn’t ready for this, wasn’t ready for their relationship to go in the direction it had been, was definitely not ready for it to progress from there.

“How about if you just offer me one of those spoons and some gelato for now,” he said.

El and Peter laughed and Neal sensed that Peter was just as relieved to change the subject as Neal was. 

They sat at the kitchen table and just when the silence was getting a touch uncomfortable, Neal asked them about their day, about the FBI, about Burke’s Premiere Events and they filled him in on what he had missed. It felt good to listen to normal life going on in his absence and he actually looked forward to get back into it in the coming days.

* * *

He went back to work. He tried to push the grief down while at work, while with other people. With Mozzie he let it show a bit. Mozzie would understand. Mozzie was grieving too, in his way. Kate and he had been close once. Neal had forgotten that until he turned to Mozzie for comfort and saw that he understood. 

Peter was there too. In his own way. He was a comfort for when Neal didn’t want to think about Kate, think about a future that he would now never have. Peter reminded him that he had a future still, when he was ready to face it, explore it.

He wasn’t ready.

But the relationship would never go back to where it was before the explosion, before the week at the Burke’s guest bedroom. A switch had been flipped and while it was terrifying to Neal thinking about some of the ramifications of that change, there were other parts that he was more than eager to explore. Soon.

Until then, they solved crimes; he and Mozzie committed them, small ones, ones that wouldn’t get either of them in too much trouble if they were found out. And he knew that they would be found out. Peter was just too good at his job for his own good, certainly for Neal’s own good. That was always going to be a dynamic of their relationship, no matter where other parts lead. Neal hoped Peter was enamored with that part as Neal was, if Peter got as much enjoyment of suspecting, watching and discovering Neal’s brushes with the other side of the law as Neal did skirting, bending and out-right breaking the rules.

El, well Neal wasn’t sure what El got out of it, hadn’t really thought that much about it. One day though, when Neal showed up at their house unexpectedly while Peter was out looking for him, Neal watched as her eyes sparkled.

“What?” he asked.

She smiled. “Nothing, I just like having this unique vantage point of the dance that you do with my husband, and more specifically, the one he does with you. I never got to see this side of him before he met you.”

“Yeah? We must look ridiculous sometimes.”

“Nah, more like adorable. It’s adorable how little you know about each other sometimes.”

“Really? I thought there wasn’t anything your husband didn’t know about me.”

“That’s what makes it so adorable. You both are convinced the other is an open book or a puzzle too easy to solve, but it’s delicious when that proves false. Like now. Peter is convinced that you are planning some elaborate and highly risky plan with Mozzie and he doesn’t even suspect that Alex has her parts to play.”

Neal looked at her in shock. “What are you talking about?”

She laughed. “Just testing a theory. So, when did she get back?”

“She hasn’t. Not yet. How did you know?”

“I didn’t. You told me. Like I said, testing a theory. If Peter knew you as well as he thinks, he’d be testing theories all the time.”

“Oh, Peter has many tests going at all times, don’t you worry about that.”

“You love it though, don’t you?”

“I’m a good student. With a real hunger for knowledge.”

“Peter could teach you all you’d ever need to know. If you let him.”

Neal swallowed, knowing they were not talking about the FBI or Alex anymore. It was on the top of his tongue to make some crack about teaching an old dog new tricks or something about the pupil becoming the master, but he didn’t know where either joke would take them so he just let the subject drop.

“I’m sure he could.”

There were times when a night got too lonely or a weekend got too long and Neal would find himself heading to their house. Peter waiting for him, Neal’s tracker telling him where he was, or the Burkes would show up in Manhattan and they would snuggle on the tiny sofa and watch old movies. Both the men had a thing for Humphrey Bogart, for different reasons, both of them got quiet and solemn at the end of Casablanca--two men at an airport hangar saying good bye to an old lover and contemplating the beginnings of a beautiful friendship. El, who was sitting between them, put her arms around each of them.

“To things as they could be...”

“...and things as they are,” Neal finished. He turned towards her, put his head on her shoulder and looked at Peter.

Peter looked like he wanted to say something so badly, but didn’t. He just smiled at Neal, put his hand tentatively on the side of his neck and stroked gently.

* * *

Then there were the long stretch of time when the presence of each other in either the Burkes’ or Neal’s place was a common occurrence. Even Mozzie stopped acting affronted by this turn, even if he never quite condoned it. Neal reasoned as long as it didn’t cut into their shenanigans Mozzie had resigned himself to accept Neal’s newest fascination. After all, Mozzie had seen many people come and go from Neal’s life and still, he remained.

Besides, Mozzie liked to remind Neal, he had his hands in a lot of proverbial pies. 

And in these months that stretched with them spending more and more time together, Neal was shocked that it hadn’t yet progressed to a place where he had to brace himself. 

Not yet. 

_But, that might be about to change_ , Neal thought to himself as he hailed a cab. Peter had invited Neal over to the house formally-- that hadn’t been necessary for a very long time. But, Peter had his, “We need to talk” look and Neal knew that since the talk was happening at the house and not the office, there was nothing official about the need.

He tried to squash his nervousness in the ride over to Peter and El’s. He had no idea how this was going to go, who was going to initiate what and that was almost more nerve wracking than all the other prospects. 

He had come to terms a long time ago with the fact that he loved Elizabeth and Peter Burke. Loved them more than he had loved anyone, both singlely and together. He had loved them for a long time. Even maybe before he had lost Kate, maybe before he had even started working for Peter. Of course the love that he felt now was so much different and so much more than it had been, but he knew now that he could no longer deny it. Could no longer deny them anything.

So he walked in ready to give them anything they wanted. What he was not prepared for was for them to ask instead, what it was that _he_ wanted.

He’d never been asked that before. Never even considered it as important.

So surprised by the question he blurted out before he’d even thought it through. “I don’t want to have sex with you.”

He wasn’t sure who he was talking to in that statement, but he couldn’t stop watching Peter’s reaction, shock, confusion and hurt played in the shape of his eyes and the curve of his lips.

After a long silence, El asked, “With either of us? Or just Peter?”

“Oh god, I didn’t mean it like that. I just...”

“We weren’t trying to imply that you were... that you are...” El tumbled over her words too.

“No, I know. And it’s okay. I mean... I... I love you. Both of you. Equally.”

Peter nodded and whispered, “Why don’t you relax and tell us what you _do_ mean, okay?”

Neal stood up and took a deep breath. He started pacing. It was how he thought best. “I do love you both. A lot. More than I think I’ve loved anyone. Or _differently_ than I’ve loved anyone. I want to make you happy. I’d do anything to make you happy. Anything.” 

“Only?” Peter asked. 

Neal ran his fingers through his hair. “Only, well, no one has ever asked me what I wanted, what would make me happy.” 

“Never?” El asked. 

“And sex doesn’t make you happy?” Peter asked. Neal understood that each of them was addressing the thing they found the most incomprehensible about what he’d just confessed. 

He answered them both. “It wasn’t that no one had ever cared before, but it’s never been discussed. Just assumed… if that makes sense?” 

El nodded so he went to Peter’s question which was harder to answer, or answer in a way that anyone would understand. “Does sex make me happy? Not as much as it should.” 

“What do you mean?” Peter asked like Neal knew he would. 

“It’s just... the actual act, the…” 

“Penetration?” El filled in. 

“Yeah, that. It’s not something I enjoy. It’s something I endure to get to the parts I like. It’s something that if you told me it was that or nothing, I would do, for the other parts you’d be offering.” 

“But it’s not something you’re willing to do, that you are happy to do?” Peter asked, still looking like he’s trying to wrap his mind around it. 

“Just with men or…” El asked at the same time Peter asked angrily: 

“What did they do to you in prison?” 

Neal barked a laugh that wasn’t humorous at all. Of course Peter would think he’d been abused into this dislike. In a world that didn’t make sense, Neal knew Peter would do anything to make it understandable. 

“Nothing _happened_ to me. Well, that’s not true. A lot of things happened. But none of that. I wasn’t abused, I don’t have hang ups about sex, it’s just… not my thing.” He struggled to try and make this understood. “It’s like how you don’t like Tuna Tartar.” 

Now Peter barked out a humorless laugh. “How are those two things even remotely the same?” 

“It’s hard to explain. It’s just… I’m not defective. There’s nothing wrong with me. I need you to understand that.” 

They stared at each other for a long time, Neal and Peter. El got up and went to him but didn’t get in the way of their silent exchange. 

Peter, after a while shrugged. “I might not understand, but I never for once thought there was something _wrong_ with you.” Neal gave him one of his looks. “Okay, maybe for a second. It’s only…” 

“You really like sex?” Neal finished. 

“A lot,” El answered for Peter. 

Peter blushed. “It’s true. I do. A lot.” 

“And you can’t wrap your mind around someone not enjoying it?” 

“Not even a little bit,” Peter confessed. 

Neal raised his hands and shrugged. “That’s okay. That’s a perfectly normal reaction I’d imagine. Like I said, I’ve never really talked about this before.” 

“And you don’t have to now either,” El said, putting his arms around Neal. “If you don’t want to. Since you’ve told us what you don’t want and we’ll process that and deal with it like the adults that we are, why don’t you tell us what it is that you do want from us?” 

“Everything else.” 

“Yeah?” Peter asked, not even hiding his relief. Now he was back to what he knew to be true about people. 

Neal met Peter’s eyes and nodded. “Everything else you’re offering to give.” 

Peter’s eyes twinkled and there was that smile again. That smile that Neal had predicted all that time ago would be the death of him was back, and then even more deadly as Peter licked his lips. 

El watched Peter too and must have feared he was about to pounce on Neal and scare him. She held her hand out. “We’ll take it slow. We’ll talk; make sure we are all on the same page. How’s that?” 

Peter nodded slowly, with his eyes still hungry on Neal. Neal swallowed and nodded too with his eyes not leaving Peter, he started, “Can I... um...” 

“Yes?” El asked. 

“Kiss you?” 

“Who?” Peter breathed. 

“You. El. Both of you. Probably one at a time.” 

Peter barked out a nervous laugh. “Probably a good idea.” 

El was closer and somehow safer in Neal’s mind, so he reached for her and brought her into his arms. It was just as he imagined, and yes, he’d imagined it a lot. 

It was slow and easy and _lovely_ , no other word for it. 

When El pulled away Neal held her close, resting his forehead against hers and closing his eyes, letting the sensation of his warmed lips stay with him as long as he could. 

“Just as I imagined,” El whispered and Neal opened his eyes. 

“Exactly.” 

Then Peter was standing in front of him and his hand reached up for Neal’s chin, then his thumb rubbed along his jaw before wrapping his fingers behind his neck and without a word between them, pulled Neal towards his waiting lips. Just like with El, he’d imagined kissing Peter Burke a lot. Unlike with El, it was _nothing_ like he’d expected. 

It was better. 

He had expected it would be hot and it was; he had expected it would be life-altering and it wasn’t. Not that Neal didn’t feel a shift in his perceptions and see glimpses into a future that hadn’t existed for him before, but there was something almost expected, almost predictable about the kiss. Like earlier when he was lying in bed with Peter, the only thing that seemed strange was that it didn’t seem strange. It was the most natural thing in the world. 

Peter kissed different than he did everything else Neal’d ever seen him do. He didn’t demand, didn’t order and didn’t set the tone, led the path; Peter invited, met halfway and let Neal explore and lead them slowly and thoroughly through the kiss. Peter had both hands resting on Neal’s shoulders, around his neck, his right thumb caressing Neal’s pulse point, his Adams apple. Neal had his arms around Peter, holding him tighter and tighter; his right hand splayed against the small of Peter’s back, his left snaked under his arm, between his shoulder blades and fisting the hair at the nape of Peter’s neck. 

After a drop of time that felt forever and nothing all at once, Peter pulled away with a growl. Neal didn’t let go though and attacked Peter’s mouth again. After a moment of shocked resistance, Peter relented and fell back into the dance their tongues choreographed. There was a desperation, a hunger that Neal didn’t know was coming from him or Peter, probably both, he reasoned. This time he pulled away, taking Peter’s lower lip in his teeth as he did. 

Peter growled again. He wasn’t the only one. El, right there behind Neal, right there in the room, watching, obviously enjoying what she saw. 

“So much for taking it slow,” she whispered, running her arms under Neal’s armpits and holding him tight. 

Neal leaned back, his head resting on her shoulder. He watched Peter regain his senses. Or as many of them as he was capable of. 

“That was...” 

“Good?” Neal asked, nervous. 

“Exemplary.” 

Neal beamed. “What now?” 

Again Peter flashed that smile, those hungry eyes. But then they flickered and faded. “We talk. I don’t want to do anything not agreed upon, nothing we don’t all want. It’s true that we are now dealing with a lot of things I’ve never done before. You both know me enough to know that I don’t do well in situations like these. I want to be good at this, for both of you.” 

Neal turned his head to look at El. “How do you not want to tear this man’s clothes off and have your way with him when he’s like this?” 

“I never deny myself those urges,” she said, but she uncoiled her arms from him and gently pushed him a bit. “But, he’s probably right.” 

“Yeah. Probably,” Neal admitted. “We have all the time in the world, but wait, you said this was a lot of things you’ve never done before. What parts? Have you never been with a man before?” 

Peter shook his head. “Never wanted to before. Does that surprise you?” 

“No," Neal answered. “Though that kiss lead me to believe different. You seemed like you _really_ knew what you were doing.” 

“Well, I’ve been kissing someone I’m passionately in love with for a long time, of course it comes naturally.” 

“Passionately in love with...” Neal just let that phrase float in the air, his heart right alongside it. 

Peter let it rest there too, not denying it, not clarifying it. 

It was El that finally broke the silence with a chuckle. They both turned to her. “It’s going to be so much fun watching close up and personal this dance of the two of you.” 

“We don’t dance,” Peter argued. 

“We could,” Neal said with a smile, and the spell was broken and they were back to where they were comfortable, all of them. Cracking wise and banter was always going to be their go-to when things got too serious, too life changing. It was fine with Neal, and by the sigh that Peter emitted, Neal imagined he wasn’t the only one. 

That night, they slept like that had those nights when Neal had been grieving, only this time they did it in the Burke’s bedroom. Neal wondered if it would ever seem like anything else, if he’d ever feel an equal partner in this new relationship. He couldn’t imagine it. Firstly, because are these things _ever_ equal? Secondly, well, the relationship he had with Peter meant they would never be equal… not for another 3 years at least, supposing he stayed on the straight and narrow. 

The idea of straying or running now was inconceivable to Neal. Yet, the thought that he would never jeopardize this thing with Peter by being what he was, what he had always been, freaked him out more than anything else. 

There in the bed, their bed, with El’s arms wrapped around him, with Peter spooned against her, his arms wrapped around both El and Neal, and he pushed it from his mind. The next days, at work, in his penthouse alone, he thought of little else. 

It wasn’t just that maybe one day he’d have to choose between the man he was, the man he’d always been, to be something else for them that had him pacing and anxious. No, it was that he was actually contemplating it and wasn’t at all horrified by the very idea. 

He’d never met anyone who had wanted to change him, and certainly no one that he’d want to change for. And that was the thing… the thing that stopped his pacing and caused him to go to the easel and try to clear his mind with lines and color, texture and form. He was pretty sure, knew it pretty instinctually, that Peter _liked_ him the way he was, wanted him, sometimes _needed_ him to be who he was, no matter what his lectures and eye rolls might argue. 


	3. Chapter Three

“Hey El?” Neal started a few nights later as they were climbing the stairs to the bedroom.

“Yes, sweetie?” she responded.

“Can I paint you?”

She turned on the stairs and looked down at him. “Paint me? Like paint a picture of me, or you know, paint _me_?”

“Paint you, paint you. Only, not with actual paint.”

Peter who had already climbed the stairs and walked into the bedroom leaned back out. “Let him. He painted me once and it was magical.”

“He painted you? When did this happen? You’ve been painting each other behind my back?” she teased.

“It was ages ago,” Peter answered. 

“The first time I stayed here,” Neal answered, still not able to talk about the why of that visit. He didn’t think of Kate in every waking moment anymore, hadn’t for a long time, but there were still moments that reminded him, that stilled him. Luckily, these days, they didn’t last long.

“Yes Neal, you can paint me anyway that you’d like.”

He beamed and she smiled down at him even more fondly.

He laid his canvas down in the middle of the bed, pulling off her top and pulling her skirt down low on her hips. When she was on her stomach, her head resting on her forearm, he undid her bra and studied her. Besides the indents that the strap of the bra left on her, she was flawless. A smattering of faint freckles on her shoulders and an adorable mole tucked under her shoulder blade her only markings. 

Neal contemplated for a long time what he would do with that skin, the ways in which he would decorate it, if only in his imagination. Something about the way she was laying, with her hair flowing and framing her side profile, resting on her forearms reminded him of a Picasso he had seen the last time he had walked through The Guggenheim. 

He blew on his fingers to warm them. The breath on the small of El’s back caused her skin to prickle and its hair to stand up.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t be,” she purred. “I liked it.”

For a moment, he contemplated giving up his artistic idea and instead spending all night causing her to shiver and shake. But he really wanted to do this, to feel her skin beneath his fingers and imagine his artwork there.

With the lightest of touches, and a smile when she shivered, he began with the swoop that would be the hair. In his mind’s eye, he would paint it chestnut instead of the yellow of the original. He then added the curves and lines of the outline of the face, swiping his thumb for the closed eye and the thin eyebrow. He knew he was getting the mouth wrong, it was impossible sometimes to mimic the abstract features that were Picasso’s trademark. Even more now that he had the perfection of Elizabeth’s lips there for comparison. 

“Can I make guesses as to what you’re painting?” Peter asked in a breathy whisper at Neal’s ear.

Neal had a similar reaction to Peter’s breath on him as El did before. He hadn’t realized Peter had been that close. Neal swallowed before nodding his answer.

“Twenty questions?”

Neal smiled. “Sure.”

“Can I touch you too?” Peter asked, again breathing hard into Neal’s ear.

Neal’s hand on El’s back stilled for a moment as he collected himself. He licked his lip before answering. “Yes or no questions. You get a yes, you can touch me anywhere you want. No means you have to stop.”

Peter’s grin took up his whole face. “Deal.”

He watched Neal work for a bit longer before he started his questions. “Landscape?”

“No.”

“Portrait?”

“Yes,” Neal answered with a sly smile.

Peter got up on his knees and reached for Neal’s shirt, pulling it over Neal’s head before clutching Neal’s shoulders and rubbing out knots Neal didn’t even know he had.

“Is the artist dead?”

“Yes!” Neal answered enthusiastically, wanting more, so much more. 

Peter and El both laughed. Then Peter leaned into Neal and began peppering the back of his neck and shoulders with kisses. Meanwhile, Neal continued to stroke the stripes of the surface the women in the portrait was laid upon down El’s back. 

“Was he American?” 

“No.” True to his word, Peter stopped his attentions on Neal.

“Alive during the Renaissance?”

“No,” Neal answered with a sigh, almost considering lying. Instead he went back to outlining the face of the woman, it was the closest to a clue he could think to give.

“Abstract?” Peter asked, hopefully.

Neal hung his head. “So close.”

“Surrealist?”

“Yes!”

Peter squeezed Neal’s shoulder again, then ran his fingers along Neal’s spine before thumbing small circles at his lower back. 

“Was the artist Spanish?”

“Uh-huh,” Neal hissed through his teeth. Peter ran his hands around Neal and rubbed along his chest, his ribs and abs as he went back to kissing along his shoulders, this time sucking the skin as he went. Neal moaned.

“Dali?” 

Neal groaned. “No.”

“Picasso?” Peter rushed to ask.

“Yes!”

Peter moved his hands down to Neal’s thigh. Neal took a deep intake of breath, but then El turned over and he focused on her instead of all the possible places Peter’s hand could go from where it was presently.

He bent down and hovered just above her. “May I?” he asked, his lips inches away from her breast.

“Please,” she begged, feathering her fingers through his hair and pulling him to her.

He licked his lips, the tip of his tongue grazing the tip of her peaked nipple. Shivers spread throughout her again, spurring him on and making him greedy for more. He flicked her nipple with his tongue and she arched into him. She spread her legs and ran her fingernails down his back.

He felt the need pulsating in every inch of her and he so very much wanted to please her, whatever she—

“Hey, what is this?” Peter asked too loud for the quiet of the suddenly overwarm room. He had his hand ground into Neal’s crotch.

Neal bowed his head against El’s clavicle, not sure if he was irritated or relieved by this abrupt interruption. “I’m sure you know what it is, you have one just like it.”

“But I thought…”

“You thought I couldn’t _get_ aroused?”

“Well, no, I just thought…”

Neal slid off El and turned to Peter. He watched Peter struggle with his words and tried not to smile. 

“You don’t like sex though, right?”

“Because I don’t like intercourse doesn’t mean I don’t have the equipment to do it. That I can’t do it, haven’t done it…a lot.”

“I know… or I think I do. But, what do you… when you…” Peter was beyond flustered. 

“You really want to talk about this _now_?”

Peter groaned. “Not really. Only… well, I’d rather ruin this moment with words and questions then ruin it later by doing something you don’t want me to, you know?”

Neal looked from Peter who looked so earnest and also concerned, to El who looked a bit frustrated, but mostly fond. “Yep, that’s my husband, the knucklehead.”

Peter blushed but Neal sat up and leaned against the headboard, Peter and El sat at each knee, Peter’s legs crisscrossed, El’s arms wrapped around her legs, covering her naked top a bit. 

“I told you I don’t do well with things I don’t understand,” Peter explained.

“I didn’t know it would manifest itself in having _really_ bad timing.”

“I know. I know.”

“So, what is it that you want to know?” Neal asked.

“I don’t know. I guess I’m just curious to how it works. How you work.”

El laughed and then covered her mouth with her hand. “Sorry.” They both looked at her so she explained. “It’s just, well, I always knew Neal was your favorite puzzle.”

“Yes and you know I love to solve puzzles.”

“I don’t know if this is a puzzle you can solve,” Neal said in a barely audible whisper. “I barely understand it myself.”

“Try,” El said, matching his whispered tone.

Neal took a deep breath and pulled the pillow next to him to his lap where he began pulling on the fringe. “Like I said, I’m not broken. I know to you it must seem that I am, but I’m not.”

Neal had been looking at Peter, who looked like he didn’t trust himself to respond, so he just nodded slowly.

Neal continued, “I will admit, however, that I am different. Not normal. I know that.”

Peter nodded slightly, but Neal knew it wasn’t to agree with what he had said, but something Peter was sorting in his own mind. What he said next confirmed this, “Not normal isn’t the same as broken.”

“No. It’s not. Even if it does feel that way sometimes.”

“Tell me how it works,” Peter asked.

Neal shrugged. “I’m just not as interested in sex as most people. Like, I don’t need it; it doesn’t guide my life or my choices. It never has.”

“Ever?”

“Never. Now, does that mean I don’t feel love? I don’t get turned on by things, by people? No. I very much do fall in love; you know that more than anyone. And I hope I’ve showed you in the months we’ve been doing this, like tonight for instance, that I very much get turned on by things, by people.”

Peter had his arms crossed; he ran his thumb across his lips. Neal had seen that gesture a lot and wondered if Peter knew that he did it. Then Neal looked down at the pillow he was de-fringing and concluded probably not. Everybody had their quirks.

“What turns you on?” Peter asked.

“About people?”

“Yes, let’s keep it to this puzzle now, shall we?”

Neal smiled. “Good idea. What turns me on about people? Lots of things, their minds, their humor—”

“Their personalities? This isn’t a personal ad, Neal. I know what turns you on intellectually and existentially, I want to know what turns you on sexually.”

“In essence? Skin. The way it looks, feels, tastes, the way it reacts to things. I could spend days just here in this room exploring your skin. Both of you.”

“And that would be all you needed?” El asked.

Neal ran his fingers through his hair. “Pretty much, yes. Left to my own devices, that would be enough, more than enough.”

“So, everyone else’s foreplay is your end game?” Peter asked.

Neal smiled. “Told you. Not normal.”

“Have you always felt this way about sex?”

Neal slowly smiled. “No Peter, prison did not do this to me. Yes, as long as I’ve thought about sex at all—which was probably later than most people—I’ve always felt this way about it.”

“How have you…what did you…”

Neal shrugged again. “Firstly, I spend most of my time with a man who thinks less about sex than I do.”

“Mozzie?” El asked.

Neal nodded.

“And secondly?” Peter asked.

“Secondly, I did it anyway.”

“Why?” Peter asked. El rolled his eyes but Neal just chuckled. “Because, Peter, the parts I like, I _really_ like. So, if to get what I want, I give something that I don’t, I don’t see the harm.”

“Didn’t.”

“What?”

“You _didn’t_ see the harm. Past tense.”

It took a minute for Neal to sort out what Peter was implying. He wasn’t entirely sure Peter meant that they were being short changed, that what he was prepared to willingly offer wasn’t enough, that _he_ wasn’t enough. 

It didn’t really matter what he meant. 

The room stilled and there was a buzzing in Neal’s ears as a profound and sudden anger constricted his head to a pin-sharp throb. He reeled and his vision blurred. If there were further conversation, if there was anything being discussed, he didn’t hear it, didn’t comprehend it. He needed to go, get away, run, run as far and as long as he could.

* * *

He knew just how much of Park Slope he could walk and still be deemed in Peter’s protective custody and therefore not in need of an alarm. In the fresh air outside of the Burke’s bedroom, he calmed a bit and fought the urge to step out of line, no, to run out of line. A man hunt was the last thing he wanted right now. Peter tracking him down, finding him, confronting him was the very last thing he wanted.

So he toed the line, he caught a cab just like he’d done a million times before, he went straight home just like he’d done, and he paced his rooms, he tried to read, tried to think of other things, to think of nothing at all. He couldn’t. All he could see was Peter. 

If he had never told Peter about himself, if he had never opened himself up in that way then where would they be? Neal admonished himself for supposing Peter and El would be different, would be satisfied with what he wanted to give them. How could he have been so stupid? If he had just given Peter what he wanted, what apparently everyone but Neal himself wanted. He’d done it before. It hadn’t hurt him, hadn’t made him love the other person any less. He didn’t think it had anyway.

He went to the easel. He tried to do what he’d done so many times before—use paint and brush, strokes and gradients to clear his mind. Without even planning to though, he found himself painting what he had been pretending to do on El’s back only hours before. It was just as he’d imagined it there in the Burke’s bedroom. El was an excellent model. 

Peter was harder to paint. Harder to see in his mind’s eye, even when he wasn’t irritated with him. He couldn’t capture Peter’s curves and contours, just his lines and how very solid he was. He always wound up thinking of Peter and instead of him, painting classic, iconic landmarks like the Empire State Building or the Chrysler Building. He was impenetrable form, function and rigid lines like the skyscrapers that shone and stood out as exceptional in a city brimming with extraordinary.

He stood back and looked at his work. Yep, it was definitely a building. It was definitely stunning. 

He hated it.

He was contemplating torching it when there was a quick knock on the door. His heart raced for a moment, even though he knew it wasn’t Peter or El. The sound of the knob being turned told him it was Mozzie. He was the only one who knocked and then walked in. If, that was, the door was unlocked.

“Neal? You in there?”

Neal only considered for a second not answering and instead hiding away for a little bit longer without having to talk to anyone about anything. Then he remembered, this was Mozzie, if he didn’t want to talk while Mozzie was there, he wouldn’t have to. That’s one of the great things about being friends with Mozzie. He never pushed personal matters and was easy to distract if necessary. 

“Coming.” 

Mozzie walked in, took one look at Neal, paint smeared and weary, one look at the painting in the corner and growled. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Bullshit. You look like hell and you’re painting the Chrysler… again.”

“It’s nothing. Really.”

“Neal.” 

“Mozz,” Neal countered. “Did you come here for any reason other than give me grief and tell me I look like hell?”

“I get very few chances to tell you how awful you look, don’t take that away from me.”

Neal smiled and went to the wine cabinet. “Shall we drink to my ill health?”

“Mental health? Yes. By all means, let’s do that.”

“Excellent.”

They sat on the sofa and talked. Mozzie was on a Transcendentalism kick and was contemplating if he could be one while still living in New York City.

Neal, who very much welcomed this distraction, argued that Mozzie already was one. “The basis of the movement was to be an individual and self-reliant, right? You don’t have to live at a pond in Massachusetts to do that. As far as I see, you are the most individual person, the most self-reliant person I know. Right here in NYC.”

Mozzie accepted the compliment with a slow smile. 

They continued this discussion and moved effortless into how best to break into various buildings around the world. For purely hypothetically discussion purposes only, naturally. Neal got up to get another bottle of wine when there was a knock on the door. He had been enjoying himself so much and was a tiny bit tipsy that he almost forgot why he’d been dreading that particular knock, that solid and strong knock.

He had frozen by the kitchen table and Mozzie watched him before whispering, “Are we not here, or should I answer it?”

Neal just nodded. Mozzie shrugged and went to the door. 

“Suit, how great to…” Mozzie stopped. Peter who looked as bad as Neal did looked right past Mozzie to Neal, still frozen beside the kitchen table. They locked eyes and Mozzie took one look from Neal to Peter before coming to Neal, taking the bottle of wine, whispering something about sinking ships and devastating consequences and walking out the door.

They continued to just stare at each other for a long moment. Peter opened his mouth a few times before he got any words out.

“Neal, I—”

Neal almost sprinted to him, wrapped his arms around him and kissed him hard. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. He couldn’t bear the thought of them not being together. He would do whatever it took to keep him.

Sliding Peter’s jacket down his arms, Neal fell to his knees with it. He reached for Peter’s belt buckle and was working it off before Peter caught up with him. 

“Wait, wait,” Peter said, reaching to stop Neal’s finger at his zipper. “No. No.”

“But…” Neal looked up into Peter’s eyes and did what he’d been doing with Peter for a year now, he stretched the truth. “I really want to.”

“No you don’t. Not like this, not because…”

Peter tried to pull Neal up, but he wasn’t budging. So, instead, Peter slid down the door and sat on the floor, eye level with Neal.

“I’m sorry,” Peter began. “I know I was being a jealous asshole. All I could see was all those other people who got these pieces of you that…” he looked away for a moment before meeting Neal’s eyes again. “And then El corrected me, I wasn’t being just a jealous asshole, I was being a _stupid_ jealous asshole if I couldn’t see that what you were offering us was so much more than all those others got.”

“Yeah?” Neal whispered. 

“You. The way you want to be, no hiding, no pretending and absolutely no compromising yourself to please others. You don’t have to please me in any way that doesn’t please you.”

“I can be anything—”

“No. I don’t want that. El doesn’t want that. We only want what you _willingly_ give. Nothing more.”

Neal dropped his head, his forehead resting on Peter’s shoulder. Peter wrapped his arms around him. “You’re shaking. Are you scared?”

“Terrified,” Neal whispered into Peter’s skin. “But I think it’s worth it. You?”

“I know it’s worth it. And yes, yes I’m scared. Mostly I’m scared that I’m going to keep saying and doing stupid things.”

“What are the odds?” Neal laughed. Peter growled and Neal added, “Well, one of us is always guaranteed to say or do something stupid. Thank the Lord for Elizabeth Burke.”

“Every day,” Peter laughed. “Speaking of, we should probably get back to her.”

“That’s an excellent plan.”

They helped each other up. Neal grabbed his jacket and followed Peter to the door. “Don’t you ever worry about the tracking always putting me at your house?” 

“Sometimes. But then, I remember that no one else follows your movements as closely as I do.”

“Yeah, but you know, you and El don’t have tracking anklets. This place isn’t bugged by the FBI… is it?”

“No, it isn’t. And you’re right, but well, I like my place.”

“I like your place too. But still, can’t beat this view. And, like I said, no Big Brother.”

“Just the short devil on your shoulder; I take it he doesn’t approve?” 

“He has… reservations.”


	4. Chapter Four

“Are you fuckin’ crazy?” Mozzie asked when Neal walked into his apartment the next day and found Mozzie there, looking like he’d been up at that kitchen table all night long.

Neal didn’t even have to say anything, didn’t even have to open his mouth. Mozzie looked at his stupid grin and his stupid open-book face and knew.

“Seriously, have you lost your mind?”

Neal contemplated playing stupid, prolonging lecture time by making Mozzie pull it from him, but he couldn’t stop smiling so the argument and the pro/cons he instantly always ran through his mind were moot.

“I think I have, Mozz.”

Mozzie looked so very disappointed in him and his heart broke a little bit. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. You have to know that. I didn’t mean to fall—”

“Yes you did,” Mozzie cut Neal off and shocked him into silence. “You have been working towards this from the beginning. You might not have realized it, but you have. I saw it; I knew it, from the first moment, from that damned lollipop. You were hopeless and yet, I still held out hope. If not you, then him, him and his morals, his rules and regulations would put a stop to this… this madness. And if not that, if not all of that, then surely El would be the perfect voice of reason. But no, you’re all caught in the net and I am… am…”

“What Mozzie, what are you?”

“Hopeless,” he whispered with a grieved sigh. “I’ve given up hope in you coming to your senses. I can no longer be the voice of reason on your shoulder—”

Neal barked out a laugh. Peter always called Mozzie the voice of something else entirely on Neal’s shoulder. Neal had been affronted by Peter’s assumption of Mozzie’s power over him, of anybody’s power over him. Now though, he knew it was true. Mozzie and his opinion mattered. 

“I can’t stand beside you and watch you go down this path when all I can see is chaos, destruction and incarceration. And that’s if you’re lucky.”

“So what are you saying, Mozz? That you’re making me choose?”

“I wish. I wish it was that easy. Never give an ultimatum if you couldn’t accept either choice. As much as I’d like to make you choose, I don’t think I could take it when you choose them, and I know you would. Right now, in this place, you would. So no, I’m not making you choose. I’m making the choice. I’m walking away.”

“Mozzie, you aren’t talking sense. Why are you doing this? Why now? What have I done?”

“It’s not something that just happened, it’s just the culmination of the last year and how I’ve reached the end of sitting quietly and waiting for you to come to your senses. I can no longer do that, I can no longer be the lone voice of reason. Not without losing you anyway. So, I have to go, walk away.”

“You’re breaking up with me, is that it?” Neal asked.

Now Mozzie barked a laugh. “Again, I wish it were that easy. No. You should know better than anyone; I can’t quit you. Not really. I might be able to walk away, and you might be able to flee the country or get sent to prison, but I’m always going to be here to help you pick up the pieces, to remind you who you are, and yes, to sing the song of the righteous _I told you so._

“But you can’t be here to share in my happiness?”

“Sanity and happiness are an impossible combination.”

“Mark Twain, really?”

Mozzie shrugged.

“I don’t know, this feels very much like an ultimatum.”

Mozzie looked at him sadly for a long time before sighing. “You say ultimatum, I say sabbatical. A respite of sorts.”

“And there’s nothing I can say or do that will make you stay?”

“Stay? No. Come back? Perhaps. You’ll know how to find me when the time comes.”

“Mozz, like most things you say, I don’t know whether that is deeply profound or disturbingly idiotic.”

Mozzie just smiled sadly again as he headed to the door. “I would leave without a word, but I can’t really let you calling me idiotic be the last thing we say to each other.”

“Maybe it will be easier if they were.”

Mozzie opened the door, turned as if to say something, but instead, raised his hand to his forehead, tipped his imaginary hat to Neal as salute and turned and walked away.

“Idiot,” Neal whispered as he closed the door. 

“Chump,” came a less than whisper from the other side of the door.

Neal leaned against the door, his heart breaking. Maybe because he was a glutton, or because this whole farewell scene wasn’t melodramatic enough, Neal went to the window and watched as Mozzie left for real. Pulling up the collar of his coat against the wind and walked away without a look back.

 _I guess only one of us is a sentimental sap,_ he thought with a sigh.

He looked around the apartment that looked both bigger and smaller than it had five minutes ago. Why had he come home again? He couldn’t remember.

 _Well, that’s one less voice on your shoulder,_ he thought to himself. He hated there was even a kernel of truth to that. That he could be swayed and made different by so many outside influences, and yet, deep down where he didn’t want to dwell too long was a bit of relief that his decisions were made easier now that he no longer had to worry about disappointing his best friend.

Was it as easy as that? _No. I’m not a sheep._

He wasn’t. But he was listless and suddenly anxious. He wanted to just go back to Brooklyn, curl up beside El, reach out for Peter and just hold them tight.

_Baaaaa._

* * *

He went for a walk instead, circling his 2 miles, stopping for coffee at a place that knew exactly how he took his latte and what sections of the paper he liked to peruse. 

He could do this; he could be on his own. He’d done it before. He remembered once upon a time, he had been really good at it. To prove it to himself, he let Mozzie have his space, he stayed away from the Burkes for a week or so. If Peter was curious about it, he didn’t mention it. He never mentioned their outside-of-the-office relationship when they were inside of work.

He didn’t push. Their work relationship had a peace and a smoothness to it so Peter must have understood that what Neal was going through had very little to do with him. Peter having learned a long time ago, Neal didn’t do well with being pushed, left him alone.

So, a few weeks later, when finally Neal again just showed up at their house on a Sunday afternoon, Peter didn’t act surprised and didn’t give him any grief. He just opened the door and asked, “Where’ve you been?” and left it to Neal to interpret that anyway he chose.

Neal shrugged. “Walking. Nothing like strolling around the city on a lazy Spring afternoon, even if it is the same two miles over and over.” He wasn’t ready to confess that he had been heart sick about Mozzie. It seemed silly out loud, no matter how much it still stung on the inside.

“Come on in; stay for dinner? I’m making pot roast.” And just like that, it was behind them.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Neal said, watching Peter’s backside in his jeans and tight white t-shirt. He followed him into the kitchen. El was at the kitchen island, papers spread out all around her. “Working weekend?”

“Two high-societies weddings and a socialite’s Sweet 16 all in the next two weeks. Not my favorite events, but it pays the bills.”

Neal and El talked about the rising prices of caviar and the increasing difficulty of procuring Rhine region whites while Peter opened a bottle of easily procured red and poured three glasses before dumping the rest into the roasting pan with the pork and vegetables. 

“Shall we?” he asked, indicating the living room. 

Neal and El sat on the couch, Neal comfortably leaning back in the corner while El faced him in the other, legs tucked under her. Peter sat on the floor, the coffee table between them. It was an arrangement they had become accustomed to already. 

There were a lot of things they had adapted as habit. They talked through the night as they prepared, consumed and cleaned up dinner. Light conversation about their days, about their cases and El’s work. Sometimes Peter and Neal entertained themselves with a game that El laughingly called “A Con by Any Other Name.” Peter started by regaling them with a sting he had been on once, an operation he had lead, and then Neal would tell of a con he _may_ or _may not_ have _allegedly_ committed that was eerily similar.

It was always Neal’s argument that their seemingly completely at odds career choices were actually very close. Peter put up a good fight, then usually, ended the jabbing with a slow smile and a shrug. “You might be right. The major difference being, my operation gets me a commendation and my name up for promotions. Yours gives you 5 years at Rikers.”

Neal waved that away. “We all chose our own prisons, now don’t we?”

“You can’t think the F.B.I. is actually comparable to prison?” 

“No. Not for you.”

“But for you?”

“You can’t compare your experience with the bureau to mine. That’s not fair to either of us. You had a choice, you are free to leave, and neither of those facts are true for me. No matter how much better than prison it is, no matter how much I learn or might enjoy what I do. It’s still a prison. The view is better, the food is better and the company is incredibly better, it’s still a prison.”

“But if you had the choice, if you had the ability to leave?”

“Then no, it wouldn’t be prison.”

“But would it be something you could see yourself doing?”

Neal thought about it. Thought about what Peter wanted to hear, it would be so easy to give it to him; he’d lied before, many times. Not to Peter, no, but to others. Would it really be a lie? Could he see himself there doing what he did forever? He didn’t know and didn’t want to think about it so he shrugged instead. It wouldn’t matter for a while anyway, two years at least if he stayed out of trouble, which was looking more and more probable. 

He felt his throat close and his heart beat faster. He needed to go, to think. Why did the world of people have to be so complicated? 

He stood up but El reached for him and clutched his hand with hers. He looked down at her with pleading eyes, but she didn’t let go.

“You don’t have to run.”

“What… what do you…? I’m not…”

“I know that’s what your first instinct is, when you’re scared or faced with truths you don’t want to think about, but you don’t have to.”

Neal dropped his jaw but couldn’t respond, couldn’t form the words required. 

“It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Neal swallowed, forcing his heart to stop beating out of his chest before whispering, “Safe from what?”

“Everything,” El answered, matching his tone. “This is your safe place. You can be yourself here, you’re true self. You can say anything.”

Neal almost barked a nervous laugh, but saw how earnest she was, so instead wiggled his hand in hers slightly, looking for Peter to contradict her. He didn’t. 

Neal sighed. “I wish that it could be, that you both could be that for me, and I to you. But it isn’t. It can’t be.”

She looked so hurt; he plunged on. “No matter what else we are here in the privacy of your house, there is also going to be what I am to your husband out there in the world. Always. I can be honest and declare my love, more important, I can be honest and proclaim my trust, even my devotion. But I can’t be myself, not entirely. I’m not safe here, not completely. I always have to remember that no matter what else happens between us, my life, my future and any hope I have of freedom rests almost completely with him.” 

He had avoided Peter’s eyes while he talked, but made a point of looking at him in the end, as if to dare him to contradict. Peter’s expression was impossible to read. Neal had forgotten how terrifying it was to be unable to know what Peter was thinking, or at the very least what direction he was leaning, hurt, angry, sad, indifferent. Neal had no idea. The long silence that followed didn’t offer any more information. Neal wanted to run so hard and so far that his whole body buzzed with the desire. El still held on to him tightly, as if she could feel his body prepare for flight.

“You’re right. Of course you are,” Peter finally started, speaking slowly as if he wasn’t sure what he was going to say before he did. “All of those things are true and I wish I could make them not true, but I can’t. 

“However, there is something you’ve forgotten that you need to understand. I might have your life and your freedom in my hands, but I’ve known, here in this house, upstairs in the bedroom, at your place kissing you on your couch, I have given you my life. It and my livelihood, everything that makes me me is in your hands. 

“Do you know, have any idea how very much I risked when I fell in love with you?” he finished in a whisper.

Finally El let go of Neal’s hand, as if she knew, knew before Neal did, that he no longer wanted to run away, no longer could. Instead he sprinted the few steps from where he was to where Peter was, still sitting, his arms wrapped around his knees almost in a fetal position.

Neal sat at Peter’s knees and fought the urge to wrap his arms around him, hold him tight. “We’ve come too far, haven’t we?”

“To go back? Back to what we were? Would you want to?” Peter asked, sounding like he was trying really hard to keep any of his own emotions and feelings out of it.

Again Neal couldn’t lie. “Sometimes. Sometimes the thought of the risk involved, the potential for disaster overwhelms me and yeah, that does make me twitchy to escape, to run. And sometimes I wish we’d never taken this step, I’d never gotten a peek into what this world could offer me. But, like I said, we’ve come too far. I couldn’t go back to not knowing. The pain of losing this outweighs the possible destruction down the road.”

“Wow,” Peter started, licking his lips. “And I thought I was risk-aversive.”

Neal barked a relieved laugh and they heard an exhale of bated breath from El, who seemed reluctant to interfere.

Peter continued, “Yes, we’ve come too far to go back, but I’m not sure that any path we had ventured back then wouldn’t eventually have led us to this place. I can’t put the exact time stamp on when I knew I was doomed to care deeply about you, but it was pretty early in our relationship.”

“February 12th 2010. You just smiled at me and I knew—”

Peter leaned over and kissed him. Lightly at first, his fingers stroking Neal’s jawline, his tongue licking Neal's lips open. As it continued and intensified Peter had his fingers around Neal’s neck, pulling him closer. 

Neal got on his knees, tugging Peter’s polo over his head as he got up and straddled him. Kissing him slowly, he ran his fingers, feather light against the bump of the mole at Peter’s throat, the puckered flesh of the scar on his shoulder, the one at his chest, the one at his torso. When he began the descent to the one under his belly button, Peter threw his head back, reclining on his hands, exposing himself for Neal. 

Neal could feel Peter’s erection against his thigh, but he ignored it and hoped Peter could for a little while longer as well. “How does investigating white collar crimes get someone so many scars?” he asked, feeling the scar tissue of the one on Peter’s shoulder with his fingers before tasting it with his tongue, licking and sucking with a moan of pleasure. 

Peter hummed and reclined further so that he was lying down on the floor before answering, “Not all white collar criminals are as nice as you are.”

Neal laughed, his teeth grazing along the edges of the scar. “That’s true. I’ve been beaten up and shot at more from being on your side than I ever was on my side.” He moved down to the scar on Peter’s torso.

“Only because you’re where you are, doing what you are, that I’m going to let that ‘your side’ and ‘my side’ statement go,” Peter growled, unbuttoning the button of his jeans and pulling down the zipper.

Neal swallowed hard the butterflies that erupted in his stomach as Peter pulled down his jeans and underpants and kicked them off effortlessly. Neal sat back to clear his head and admire the man before him. Skin, hair, blemishes and muscles; Neal was mesmerized and wanted to taste it all, feel it all. He saw there were more scars on his thigh and the baseball injury on his knee. Neal wanted to devour every single flaw of the man.

He also saw, couldn’t avoid, the other man’s cock, rigid and almost pulsing with need. He saw desperation and longing mirrored in Peter’s eyes. Peter smiled at him and Neal’s heart fluttered and there was nothing he wouldn’t do for him, nothing he wouldn’t do to earn that smile.

But then El was there, sweet, beautiful Elizabeth wrapping her arms around Neal and breathing into his ear. “I want to see both my boys.” Her fingers were working the button of his shirt. “May I?”

“Mm-hmm,” Neal hummed, turning to kiss her, fisting her hair and marveling at the texture and feel, thick and sleek. She removed his shirt and the feel of her hands on his bare skin, delicate and soft sent his hair follicles a buzz. He could just do this all night. Kiss her, kiss him, feel them, and taste them. It was all he wanted, all he needed.

Peter sat up and began kissing along the back of El’s neck, working her shirt out of her skirt. “Should we maybe take this upstairs?” he asked between kisses.

El raised her hands and stopped kissing Neal as the shirt was lifted over her head. “Perhaps. Can you move?”

Peter took the hooks of her bra between the fingers of one hand and expertly tugged and unhooked them. “I can now, not sure how long I can if we keep this up.” 

Neal pulled the straps of her bra down her arms and began kissing where they had been, working his way down to her breasts. He didn’t care where they continued. But, when Peter and El stood up, he did likewise, toeing off his Kenneth Cole shoes and working his trousers down, discarding them as they walked to the stairs.

Peter picked up El by the waist and put her over his shoulder as they climbed the stairs. She reached out for Neal and he joined them, tugging on her skirt as they made their way to the bedroom. He threw the skirt over his shoulder and it fell somewhere on the landing. She giggled and he smiled as he reached for her panties. Those were deposited at the door of the bedroom and soon after, she was deposited on the bed. 

Neal stood over her and studied her naked body as well. She was flawless. A few freckles to lick, a mole or two to kiss and the rest of her flesh just begged to be tasted. He wet his lips and her eyes changed from amusement to smoky with desire.

“May I?” he asked.

“Please,” she replied in a whisper. “Anything you want.”

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Everything.”

Peter stretched out beside her, propping himself on his elbow and nuzzling her neck with his nose, mouth, tongue. Neal picked up her ankle delicately in the palm of his hand and brought it to his cheek. Feather-kissing along her instep had her balling her fists into the sheets as if to stop the reflexive twitch. He smiled wickedly and she moaned, whether it was his look, or Peter’s attentions to her throat and chest that did it, Neal wasn’t sure.

Neal continued to kiss his way up her legs as Peter worked his mouth down, spending most of his time at her breast. She moaned again, throwing her head back and spreading the leg not being devoured by Neal, over Peter. As Neal made his way to her hip bone, Peter’s hand slid along her thigh until he came to the slick hair between her legs.

Despite himself, Neal stopped what he was doing to watch as Peter twirled his fingers along the edges of the hair and slowly walked them to her center. Laying on her other side, Neal rested his head on her chest and heard her breath catch as Peter spread her labia and felt the gasp as he slid his middle finger slowly along her clit.

“Please,” she begged and Peter instantly slid down her body and pulled her legs over his shoulders, dipping his head in between her spread legs. This time instead of balling her fists into the sheets, she tugged on Neal’s hair, pulling him up to her and kissing him hard.

Neal could no longer see what Peter was doing to her, but he could feel it in the desperation of her tongue exploring his mouth, in the wetness of her mouth as his tongue explored hers, in the moans that she breathed into him, in the hairs standing up on her arm as she stroked it, her prickled skin, the pool of sweat at her clavicle and especially when she wrapped her arms tight around him and every muscle in her body tensed. He felt her orgasm as if it were his own and he rode along beside her breathless and spent.

Kissing the tip of her nose, her forehead, her cheek and her chin, he settled his head on her shoulder and looked down to where Peter was beaming at them.

“You done good,” Neal whispered, reaching for him. 

He slid back up to them, nuzzled his nose into the other side of her neck and reached for Neal, cupping his hand to Neal’s jawbone, running his thumb along Neal’s chin.

“Very good,” El added.

“Well, thank you. But, I don’t think we’re done yet. El, do you think we’re done?”

They shared a conspiratorial look and then looked at Neal who swallowed hard and prepared himself for whatever it was that they had planned; trusting them completely and without reservations. 

“Not even close,” El answered. 

Peter slid off the bed beside El and walked around to lie beside Neal, sandwiching Neal in between the two Burkes.

“May I touch you?” Peter asked.

“Please,” Neal rushed to answer.

“And me?” El asked.

Neal nodded. Peter had started running his fingers along the pulse points of Neal’s wrists, and the sensation rendered him speechless. El did the same with his other arm, trailing kisses after the caress. His whole body shook with sensation overload. This only spurred them on and Peter worked on his shoulders and chest; caresses, kisses then licks, with a few occasional nips with his teeth, just to get Neal to moan and beg for more.

El worked his legs, thighs and hips with the same treatment. He balled his fists into the sheets of the bed wanting so bad to touch them both, but he knew they needed to do this to him, for him.

“You both are going to be the death of me,” he moaned, biting his lip when they both meet at his abdomen.

They both laughed and Peter guided him to roll over to his stomach. 

“You think you’re the only one who wants to paint people?” El asked.

“Honestly?” Neal asked. “Yeah.”

“We might not be as artistically talented as you, but stick figures are a dying medium, yes?” Peter said while kissing the freckles of Neal’s shoulder blades.

“Mm-hmm.”

Again they took sections of Neal and worked their way, slowly and deliberately to the center. Neal was seeing stars and was about ready to burst by the time that El and Peter both took a butt cheek in between their teeth and bit down.

He clinched the pillow case painfully in his fists and, slamming his eyes shut, came for the first time ever, doing exactly what he wanted to do and nothing else. 

He was so stunned he didn’t notice them both lying beside him and wrapping their arms around him. 

“I... I…” he tried to begin. He didn’t know what to say, how to articulate his joy. 

“Us too,” El whispered, ruffling his hair and yawning into his shoulder.

Neal watched and marveled as they both began to close their eyes. He couldn’t remember ever being this happy in bed, this satisfied. It was exhilarating and he didn’t want it to end. He also didn’t want anything to ruin this absolutely perfect moment. 

So, he waited until they were both asleep, kissed them both on the cheek and quietly left. He gathered up his clothes and folded theirs into neat piles. Placing them on the sofa along with a note saying that he wasn’t running away, just recuperating, and folded it into a dove, he stepped out of the dream that he wasn’t ready to wake up from.

_Every story has a happy ending if you know where to end it._

But he didn’t want it to end. It might not always be _that_ perfect, and there might even be bad days, days where they fought, when they tested each other, of course there would be, but he didn’t care. It was worth it.

Maybe it was the overwhelming giddiness of all the possibilities, all the ways in which he, Neal Caffrey could, in fact, have it all, or maybe it was because he found himself at the docks where he could hear Mozzie’s Estelle cooing along with all the other pigeons and that had to be a bit of fate too, didn’t it? 

There were so many things he wanted to tell Mozzie, so many things he needed him to understand. Neal’s life had been altered entirely and yet it didn’t feel real if he didn’t have Mozzie to scoff and try and convince. What could he say though on one little slip of paper? What quote would convey it, what line would convince his friend?

He found the pad of tiny squares of paper and decided brevity had to win out. He scribbled a quick note, “I can’t quit you either.” Then he rolled the paper tightly and after petting and cooing at Estelle, tied the note on the bird’s leg, sending her to delivery his message.

_Happily ever after isn’t for guys like us._

_Yeah?_ Neal thought, _who says_?

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic a few years ago to fill a request in a kink meme. You can see the request [here](http://collarkink.livejournal.com/3437.html?thread=4081517). I had written the first little bit and knew I wanted it to be so much more. So I thank profusely the people involved in the White Collar Big Bang for giving me the opportunity to expand and explore even more.
> 
> If you'd like a visual for the artwork I described Neal drawing on Peter and El:  
> [Great Wave of Kanagawa by Katsushika Hokusai.  
> ](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f7/Great_Wave_off_Kanagawa.jpg)[Woman with Yellow Hair by Pablo Picasso.](http://uploads2.wikiart.org/images/pablo-picasso/woman-with-yellow-hair-1931.jpg)


End file.
